


not from the absence of violence

by pawn_vs_player



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Canonical Character Death, Depression, F/F, Friendship, Gen, Implied Relationships, Mental Health Issues, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 14:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16745875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pawn_vs_player/pseuds/pawn_vs_player
Summary: Veronica is not the only one who has to deal with the afterwards.Heather, Heather, and Martha, on going through and getting back from hell.





	not from the absence of violence

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas!! i'm still heathers trash!!  
> also, obligatory disclaimer bc mama didn't raise no plagiarist: title is from the last part of a quote from Richard Siken's "Crush". the full phrase is "...which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which heather duke has more than two dimensions. this may or may not be a good thing.

You have "The Wicked Witch Is Dead" stuck in your head.

You know better than to hum it when Heather is hanging around, but after lunch, you find yourself alone in the bathroom. You look at yourself in the mirror, your hair tugged back from your face by a blood-red scrunchie. It's not quite a crown, but it's close enough.

You smile, and begin to sing.

-

Veronica's creepy boyfriend sidles up to you, holding a piece of paper. He tells you it's a petition. He asks you to pass it around and get people to sign it. 

You ask him why you should do anything he says.

He tells you Veronica pissed him off. He tells you that if you do this for him, he'll owe you a favor. He asks you if you remember what he did when Kurt and Ram got in his way in the cafeteria.

You look at him for a long moment. He could be a good manipulator, with a little work. Throwing all his cards on the table without waiting for an opening, showing you the carrot and the stick at the same time - that's sloppy. But damn if he doesn't have a flush hand anyway.

You tell him you'll do it. He smiles at you. His hair is an artful mess; his eyes are icy-pale, and when he looks at you it's like you're being x-rayed.

You can understand how Veronica, stuck-up prudish nerd Veronica Sawyer, fell in love with his guy. You, though - you have bigger fish to fry.

"Look forward to working with you," you tell him, and it isn't even a lie.

-

Something most people don't notice: you always sit near the exits, in every room or building you occupy.

Your usual spot in the gym is taken by a teacher, one of the ones you can't boss around. You sigh and take up your second-choice spot instead, on the bleachers near the entrance to the boiler room. There's a small, dirty hallway down there leading to a door that comes out in a guardhouse behind the schoolbus parking lot. Heather C showed it to you and Heather M a long time ago, when all three of you were new freshmen who needed a place where boys couldn't find you.

You're the only one who's used it in recent years. Heather C decided it was a crutch, and she taught Heather M how to use the boys who wanted a taste of the three prettiest, coolest girls in school. You never managed to play that game. You've never been able to hide your disgust like Heather C could. So you kept the crutch, and you sit near doors, and you keep your head up and your back to the wall whenever you can. 

In the clamor of the pep rally, you scoot nearer the boiler room entrance. None of the teachers are looking your way. You know from experience that just closing the door will lessen the sound dramatically. Your head aches; you didn't drink last night, but you still feel hungover, stomach roiling and head full of red-hot nails. The noise is a hammer pounding the pain harder into your skull. 

You get up, sneaking toward the door. Just a few feet, a quick pull of the handle, and a careful hand to keep the door from slamming behind you. Then you can have a bit of peace.

You haven't opened the door yet, but you're close, hand resting on the handle. You're closer than anyone else in the gym.

That's why you hear the gunshot.

For a single moment, fueled by a surge of adrenaline and cat-killing curiosity, your hands land on the handle. You almost pull the door open. Almost rush down the stairs. Almost run toward a shooter. 

The moment passes: your self-preservation instinct kicks you. You back away from the door, glancing around behind you. No one else heard it. They're too far away, enveloped by the performance.

Your eyes catch on Heather, golden ponytail and bright uniform and shining eyes, teeth glinting white in her wide smile. Your chest constricts. You want to scream her name, run over and grab her arm and drag her away from whatever the hell is happening in the boiler room, get her away from the danger under your feet.

You don't. You turn your back and run behind the bleachers, shove past Ms Fleming's concerned arms, and emerge into the blinding sunlight.

You sit in your car and dig your fingernails into your arms, fighting for control. Long before you manage to get your breathing to slow down, the skin breaks, blood beading up bright scarlet like a dead girl's smile.

-

You're not shaking anymore by the time you get out of your car. Your breaths come slow and steady. Your hair and clothes are smoothed down into their usual graceful fall around your body. You look your part as Queen of Westerberg High. Your mask is perfectly in place. Heather M might be able to tell that something's wrong, but she's not brave enough to push you for details. Heather C could always tell when you were off your game and what had set you off-balance, but Heather C is gone.

You walk back down the hill toward the school. Not toward the auditorium, but toward the main entrance. You didn't hear anything else when you were in your car - no more gunshots, no screams. No one had come running through the parking lot. No one, in short, had responded like there was a shooter on campus.

So you're just going to check in with the main office and see if they've heard anything. You'll tell them what you heard and then you'll get back in your car and then you'll drive home, because even if it is a false alarm you're not going to wait around long enough to find out.

But it isn't a false alarm.

From your place in the parking lot, slightly elevated above the main building, you can see behind it into the sports fields. In the back field, usually a lacrosse field, are two people. You can't make out much detail, but one of them is wearing a long black coat and the other is a blue silhouette against the dirt and grass. Veronica and her weird boyfriend. And Veronica is holding something.

They look like they're talking - arguing, maybe. The boyfriend says something, sidles up closer to her; Veronica shies away, holding... whatever it is she's holding closer to her chest. If you squint, you can just about make out a rough shape - something vaguely round, possibly made of dark plastic or metal. 

The boyfriend reaches out again - not for Veronica's burden, this time, but instead to cup her cheek. You blink and squint harder - his hand is bloody, leaving a streak on her face - is he  _missing a finger?_

Veronica's arms loosen a little, letting the weight of the object pull her arms down, elbows straightened. Her boyfriend presses their foreheads together, red from his hand staining her cheek, and slips his other hand under hers, under the mysterious object.

In one swift, graceful movement, he scoops it out of her arms and steps back. Veronica's arms follow him, just for a moment, before she wraps them around herself and steps back. Her weird boyfriend shifts the weight of the black object into the crook of one elbow and gestures for her to back up more, a movement of his bloody hand. You're pretty sure he's missing a finger. Your throat tightens - did Veronica - but then, why follow her, why touch her so gently, why -  _what is happening?_

You are more confused than you have ever been. Right now, just about the only thing you know is that the only people who can make you understand are down on the field.

Veronica's boyfriend wraps both his arms around the dark object. His coat sways in the breeze. Veronica has both her hands wrapped over her mouth; slowly, as her boyfriend takes one last step away from her, she lowers her hands and turns away from him. You think you can see her lips moving as she turns.

And then - 

_BOOM_

-

You're running before the smoke clears, running toward the main building. That was a bomb, that was a  _fucking bomb_ they were fighting(?) over, Veronica's boyfriend was holding a bomb and it  _went off_ and Veronica was so close to him - 

You slam through the doors of the school, air struggling in and out of your lungs. For once, there's nobody in the hallway - everyone else is at the pep rally (or out on the field - no, don't think about it) or at home. The one fucking time you needed someone to be here, there's no one.

You fumble your phone out, mashing blindly at the buttons. Your vision is full of black spots. You think you hear someone on the other end of the line - you've only pressed three buttons, surely it has to be the right number. You don't wait to make sure that it is; the fear surging through your veins won't let you.

"There was a," you can't fucking  _breathe_ , "th-there was a bomb. On the field. There was a bomb and it went o-off." Your hands are shaking so badly that you drop the phone. You barely register the clatter as it hits the floor. You keep speaking, your brain caught in a loop - there's no room for new information or new thoughts, only those last few seconds down on the field as you watched, stupid and helpless. "Veronica was there and h-her boyfriend, her boyfriend was holding it - it went off - "

You can't breathe. Your heartbeat is overwhelmingly loud in your ears. The black spots are bigger: you can barely see anything around them.

Your knees hit the cold tile of the floor. Your hands sting with the impact. Your phone lies on the floor, screen spiderwebbed with cracks and dark. You didn't call anyone.

The breath you let out is more of a sob. You curl into yourself, forehead pressed against the floor, and you let the tsunami of emotion swallow you whole.

-

You have no idea how much time passes. You hear the bell ring; someone forgot to take it off the usual schedule. As much as you usually hate that sound, you're grateful for it now: it shakes you free from the cold grip of panic and horror that had kept you frozen and helpless on the floor. You pick up your phone and peel yourself off the grimy tile.

Your phone's dead. You need to tell a teacher, or at least find someone with a phone who can call 911. There's a part of you that wants to run out back to the field, see if Veronica - if either of them - survived, but - no. You're curious, but not that curious. You haven't forgotten that one of them might have a gun. You haven't forgotten the blood the boyfriend left on Veronica's cheek.

Breathing is easier, but your hands still shake. You move slowly, trying to walk like a girl made of Teflon and not a newborn deer. You pull the red scrunchie out of your hair and fiddle with it, using it as a stress toy. The familiar red, somewhere between cherry and blood, makes your heartbeat slow down to a more normal rate. Heather C always knew what to do. Heather C was confident and regal and detached. Heather C passed her legacy to you (everyone knows Heather M isn't leader material), so you need to live up to her example.

You're almost to the door when you see someone coming up the stairs. You blink, trying to clear the leftover tears out of your eyes. There's a skirt, you think, because shorts don't have that kind of swish to them, and dark hair, and - you rub at your eyes, because there's still dark smudges in your vision. It takes you a moment to realize that the person is covered in dark smudges - covered in soot. 

Veronica opens the door. Her hair is a wreck. Her clothes are blackened, the hem of her skirt almost crispy. There's still blood on her cheek. Her eyes look straight through you.

Stupidly, because nothing has ever prepared you for this situation, you blurt out - "You look like Hell."

Veronica looks at you, at the red scrunchie in your hand, at the cracked screen of your phone clenched in your fist, at the tear tracks still visible on your blotchy cheeks. "I just got back," she says, and takes the scrunchie from you. Her hands are cold, but they are steady.

She doesn't put the scrunchie into her hair. She puts it around her wrist. You hear another door opening down the hall: the entrance from the auditorium to the rest of the building. Veronica looks past you and walks down the corridor. She doesn't say anything else to you. She doesn't look back. 

You clutch your phone, feeling the sharp edges of the cracked screen dig into your palm. You feel lost, somehow, like the last anchor holding you to the Earth has been taken away and now you're drifting away into the endless sky.

Heather M bounces into view. Veronica runs to her.

Just for a moment, you can almost feel a cold hand on your shoulder and cold breath in your ear, Heather's favorite way of getting your attention because she loved making you jump. Heather C, "the red Heather": blood and rubies, passion and violence and lust. You miss her. God, you miss her.

You close your eyes. Heather C is dead. You take a breath. Heather M doesn't like you anymore. You open your eyes. Veronica has the scrunchie.

You turn around. You walk to the door. You open the door. You walk to the parking lot. You get in your car. You drive home.

You get in bed. You cry yourself to sleep.

The next morning, you go to school. The lacrosse field is sectioned off with police tape. Veronica doesn't come to class. Heather M doesn't look at you. No one speaks to you.

You keep your head down and take notes. You wonder if this is how Heather C felt before she swallowed antifreeze.


End file.
